The Ring

When the sun is leaving the sky,
a moment stretches forever--
Always, the searching rays find it, the ring
on the top bookshelf – far from reach –
Glinting, drawing my gaze, demanding,
as sunset echoes through the clear stone
sealed in a plain gold band, I barely remember
when the white crystal still cast shards
of rainbow, now coated in dust.

With closed eyes, I can see
every detail, my fingers have caressed
the scarred surface. The soft alloy
defended little against the abuse
of living, of loving, I saw the circle
bend, but never break. My heart
memorized each scratch,
each dent pounded by a cry
silenced in a wall, a blue print,
carbon copy filed away
by a quiet hand.

If I grip my hand tight, I can still feel the imprint
that never leaves, a faint callous etched in my skin.
I have always hated that moment, when the sun
sits on the horizon, in an all too clear sky.